Paladin
by Flyingfish40
Summary: When an old enemy of Booth and Brennan resurfaces, Booth is left fighting for his family. A story which attempts to scratch the surface of where Booth's brand of chivalry might come from.
1. Chapter 1

_Hi there, I only discovered Bones about a year ago and have been devouring the box sets ever since. This is a story of three chapters, set during season 6, after The Daredevil in the Mold, but before The Change in the Game (ie, post Hannah, but before Booth/Brennan get together)._

 _This is my first fanfic and I did look for a beta a couple of times, but had no luck (sob) so decided to push on._

 _Anyway, enjoy and please review!_

 _Disclaimer: I am in no way talented enough to create two fully formed and interesting characters such as Booth and Brennan. They belong to Hart Hanson and Fox._

Paladin

Chapter 1

Special Agent Seeley Booth sighed in frustration as he heard the telephone ring behind him.

Glancing at his watch he realised he was already late for dinner with Bones and Parker and cursed whoever had decided to call at seven o'clock on a Friday night. Spinning on his heel he strode back into his office and reached across his desk to snatch the receiver from its cradle, cutting off the irritating noise.

"Booth!"

But whoever was at the other end had was muffling the reciever; he could only hear a scratching sound and mumbled talking.

"Agent Booth here!" he repeated, again glancing at his watch and trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

The mumble suddenly became clearer: "And get the SWAT boys ..." before scratchy, white noise filled his ear again.

Recognising the voice, Booth immediately stood up straighter. "Deputy director Hacker? Is everything ok sir?"

"Ahh. Agent Booth," the deputy director sounded slightly flustered as his voice came clearly over the line. "Ah. Just working on a big case . . ."

A pause, which quickly became a strained silence that Booth felt compelled to fill. "Is there anything I can help you with sir?"

He had described Hacker as a bit of a doofus to Bones more than once, but he thought the guy was decent enough not to be ringing so late before the weekend without good reason. Besides, the mention of the SWAT team had caught his interest.

"Booth, I need to see you in my office straight away," his boss seemed to have regained his train of thought. "I'm sorry for the late hour, but this can't wait."

"Sure sir, I'll be up right away. I just have to make a quick call."

"Ok."

Another strange pause.

"Anything else sir?"

"No, no. That's fine."

Puzzled, Booth moved to replace the receiver.

"Booth?"

Quickly he brought the phone to his ear again. "Yes sir?"

"It's not Temperance you're calling is it?"

"Ah, yes," he felt strangely irritated at the mention of his partner's name. He knew Hacker had had a thing for Bones, and he knew that Hacker knew that it was over, but it still annoyed him.

"If you reach her, give her my love, won't you?"

Booth could feel himself blush, not knowing quite what to say. He felt territorial, but pushed the feeling away - Bones would hate it.

"Sure." He knew his tone sounded clipped, but he couldn't help it. "I'll see you in a few minutes."

Returning the receiver harder than he should have, he stood there staring as he adjusted his tie.

 _What the hell was that about?_

* * *

Booth snapped his cell shut as he got out of the lift and made his way to Hacker's office. Still no reply from Bones. She would be on her way to Wong Fu's with Parker by now. Hopefully she'd pick up the message that he'd be late and order for him. He should make it in time before the food arrived.

As he dodged the staffers heading for the elevator and the weekend he could see the deputy director's secretary attacking the keys of her computer like an angry woodpecker. He figured it wasn't a good sign.

"Hey, Nadine," he gave her his best smile. "He's expecting me?"

"You and the whole damn cavalry. I don't know what's going on Agent Booth, but I know I'm going to be eatin' my dinner cold tonight."

"Something big, huh?" he said, trying to gauge whether he was even going to get near dessert.

"He's been roarin' and hollarin' for the past hour. At this rate we'll be lucky if we get a break to get to the cafeteria."

"Well, dinner there isn't so bad."

"Darlin', I meant for breakfast! You'd better get yourself in there. The sooner you're in, the sooner we're all out and we can all go home."

Booth moved towards the office. Hacker was facing him, hunched over the boardroom table staring at a laptop; two men stood across from him, their backs to the door.

He felt the tension as soon as he stepped into the room.

"Agent Booth," Hacker snapped the laptop shut and stood up. His face looked drawn. "Come in. I don't believe you've met US Marshall Paul Nicholls of WITSEC, and Agent Philip Mantua."

"Sure, nice to meet you fellas," Booth extended his hand. Grey-haired and well-dressed, Nicholls looked like a bit of stuffed shirt, but Booth knew that the men who ran witness protection were heavy hitters, creating new lives for hardened criminals and often under threat themselves as they tried to protect their charges.

Nicholls silently extended his hand and gave a firm, dry handshake.

Mantua moved toward him. "Agent Booth, its great to finally meet you!" The greeting was delivered a little too loudly and the man seemed jumpy. He was scruffy and bearded, with a tattoo curling around his neck and into his shirt - he could have taken lessons off Nicholls in the what-to-wear department. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Agent Mantua has been undercover with the Mara Muerte for the past 18 months," Hacker said, moving to the head of the table. "He's been trying to get Roberto Ortez to turn state's evidence."

Booth glanced at his boss and was surprised to see a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead.

"Well good luck with that," he said, directing his attention back to the agent. "In all my dealings with him he was a hard man to convince of anything that his gangbangers didn't back up."

"Well, we think we've got him fairly convinced now. He's ready to roll!" Mantua said slapping the table.

"Gentlemen," Hacker laughed nervously, "Agent Mantua is obviously still coming down from the high."

"Yeah, takes a while," Nicholls observed dryly, taking a seat opposite Hacker.

Sneaking a look at his watch, Booth sat at the table, two places down from Nicholls.

"So," Hacker said, grasping the back of a chair. "Now we're all here, we can bring this thing up to speed."

"What thing?" Booth asked. _Must be important, Hacker's gripping that chair like he's going to break it apart._

He heard Nicholls shift slightly beside him and suddenly felt uneasy; his stomach clenched and it was nothing to do with hunger.

"As Agent Mantua said, Agent Booth," Hacker removed his hands from the back of the chair in a visible effort to pull himself together. "Ortez is ready to leave Mara Muerte."

"Yeah, ready to fly into the arms of Nicholls," Mantua laughed from where he was lounging on the wall behind Booth.

"That's a good catch, Mantua," Booth said, his eyes never leaving Hacker. "But I don't see what that has to do with me."

He leaned forward on his elbows, trying to catch Hacker's eye as his boss paced back and forth.

"My boys are all ready to get him out Agent Booth," Nicholls said. "But there been a complication, shall we say. And it involves you."

"Me?" Booth sat back in his chair, taking the older man in. "But I haven't had anything to do with Ortez and his gang for about five years."

He remembered with satisfaction following the gang leader into the alley after he'd threatened Bones, telling him in no uncertain terms what would happen to him if anything happened to her.

"Booth, you need to take a look at this," Hacker said, moving the laptop toward him and flipping open the screen. It flashed to life, showing what looked like CCTV footage taken from the top of a lamppost.

At first it was hard to be exactly sure what he was watching for. Most of the screen was taken up with an empty sidewalk. The extreme right showed the edge of a road. He could just make out the tops of cars going by.

"This was taken about 5pm tonight," Hacker said softly, almost apologetically. There was something in his tone that made all Booth's senses snap to high alert. He kept watching.

Then, at the top of the screen, two figures appeared. Even though the footage was grainy and taken from above, he instantly recognised the cut of the woman's hair, its bounce and sway as she looked down at the boy beside her. There was only one person that boy could be.

He would think back to that moment later and wonder at the fact that the panic didn't kick in immediately. That he was able sit calmly, watching the two people he loved the most _on CCTV godamnit_ as his world slowly tilted on its axis.

Part of it was probably disbelief. Disbelief that this time _he_ was the victim. He was the guy on the other side of the table as the bad news played out. Part of it was probably years of training as a soldier, a sniper, and an agent. Waiting until he had all the facts before he made a decision. _Nothing bad has happened yet._

Part of it was probably just shock, his body's defences shoring up the dam of panic.

What happened next, broke that dam.

A car pulled in beside the pair. Suddenly a man appeared, looming up in front of Bones like he'd sprung from the ground. She looked up from Parker as she stopped short. Before she had time to react, the man had slammed a fist into her face.

Booth flinched as Bones fell, then felt his muscles tighten as his son started to move, disappearing from the frame. _That's my boy. You run Parker, run!_

The man was down now, Bones had swept his feet out from under him. But he tackled her as she struggled to get up. He slammed her head against the sidewalk, once, twice, and then she was still.

Booth felt his skin crawl as the man dragged her to the back of the car and out of view.

"He probably put her in the trunk," Hacker said quietly.

"What?" Booth looked up, he felt confused, his heart felt like it was beating out of his chest. "Bones . . .?" He struggled to order his thoughts. Everything was happening too fast. He took a deep breath. "Parker, he'll know . . . he got away. Who picked him up?"

Nichols leant toward him. "I'm sorry Agent Booth, there's more."

 _I'm sorry Agent Booth, there's more? What the hell . . .?_

Booth looked blankly at the screen. What more could there be? His partner beaten and kidnapped, his son . . . _Please God, where is my son?_ The screen was empty.

Then, from the left, his child, being carried, seemingly lifeless, by a second man, a stranger, and dumped in the back seat of the car before it drove away.

Booth groaned as his head sunk to the table.

"I'm sorry Agent Booth," It seemed like Hacker's voice was speaking to him from under water, the words muffled and wavering. "We can't be sure how many there were. The second man either exited the car out of the camera's range, or was waiting nearby."

He felt the director's hand on his arm.

He started to pray.

"Agent Booth?"

 _Be strong and courageous._

"Agent Booth!"

 _Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you._

"Agent Booth, please."

 _Be strong and courageous!_

In one clean move Booth kicked his chair away and was on Mantua, holding him against the wall by the throat.

"Where did they take them you sonofabitch?!"

"Agent Booth! Stand down!"

It was Hacker, coming around the desk; he sensed Nicholls getting out of his chair.

"If they die! I swear to God I will kill everyone responsible. Starting with you!"

"Agent Booth! I said stand down!"

He slammed Mantua's head against the wall and stepped away as the man fell. He rubbed his hand over his face, trying to erase the images of his son, lifeless; his partner, beaten, and no one there to help.

He turned back to Mantua, ready to beat him again until he had what he wanted. Nicholls grabbed his arm.

"He's no good to you dead, Agent Booth."

"You!" Booth turned, wrenching his arm away, stepping in close. "You. Is this your "complication"?!"

Nicholls stood his ground. "Ortez started to get nervous. He wasn't sure of the plan. He didn't think it was tight enough. We were to pick him up at a roadside diner, away from his crew. But he didn't think the gangbangers would be convinced. He never travelled without his top men and he knew they would have to be convinced that the arrest was a fluke."

"What?! So Ortez thinks, 'Let's pick up a couple of civilians. Better yet, FBI family, then we'll have a real reason to come in and raid the place'," Booth balled his fists, struggling to control his emotions. "Tell me Nicholls, since when do gangbangers get to choose the moves?"

"I tried to stop him Agent Booth," Mantua had a hand to his head, trying to stem the bleeding. "I tried to get the word out for protection."

"Well you didn't try hard enough," Booth snapped, turning toward the agent, towering over him as he lay on the floor. "We make the play! We make the deals! They don't get to make the play!"

"Booth!" Hacker stepped between the men, his palms up. "We know where they are. Ortez is back in the game. He gave us heads up."

"Where. Where are they?"

"We have men waiting to go in."

"What?" Booth heard his voice grow softer, more deadly. He stepped closer to Hacker. "Men like _this_ ," he pointed at Mantua. "Amateurs like _this_? You seriously think I'd risk the life of my partner, my _son_ with amateurs like this? No." He turned away. "I'm going in myself."

"You can't," Nicholls said. "Be reasonable. The whole gang will be there. What's going down has to be that public."

"If you think I'm ..."

"Agent Booth, the deputy director says you're the best agent the bureau has, but that's only if you're alive."

Booth leant heavily on the table, trying to get himself under control, trying to think.

 _Be strong and courageous._

He knew the men were right, but he also knew he had to be involved. There was no way he was going to risk his family with anyone, not when the bureau and WITSEC had already lost control so badly.

He looked up at Hacker, and forced himself to be professional. "I'm going in. You can follow with back-up. But I'm going in first to secure them."

Nicholls shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I wouldn't advise that."

"I don't care what you advise," Booth spat. "Agents going into a gangbanger stronghold, guns blazing; chance to get a medal. I'll be damned if this is going to be another Waco."

"It won't be," Hacker bristled. "I think it's fair to say the agency learnt its lesson there."

Booth struggled to control himself; it was time to play his trump card. "Tell me Hacker, do you want Max Keenan on your tail if this goes wrong?"

Hacker swallowed uncomfortably.

"Keenan? Who the hell is Max Keenan?" Mantua asked, struggling to his feet.

"A career criminal who gets very upset when his daughter – you know her as Dr Temperance Brennan – is put in danger," Booth answered.

"We'll be lucky if he doesn't know about this already," Hacker muttered.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"So, it's decided. I'm going in first." Booth stood to leave, "You," he said, jabbing Nicholls in the chest, "talk to Ortez and make it happen. Tell that sonofabitch that if anything happens to my family, he'll get a lot more from me this time than just a gun down his throat. "

He turned to Hacker as he walked out the door. "I'll be in my office talking to Rebecca. Let me know when it's done."


	2. Chapter 2

_Hi there,_

 _Firstly, I have been thrilled and slightly taken aback by the number of readers following and reviewing this tale so far. Thanks so much!_

 _A short note about this chapter. It was written first, as a stand-alone piece and was never intended for publication. I only wrote chapters one and three afterwards, when I felt this piece needed context and closure (and I found there was more to be said)._

 _Originally, this chapter was written purely as an exercise in writing a violent scene without graphically depicting the violence. Here, the violence is supposed to be suggested rather than detailed. If you want to review, I would appreciate it if you let me know if I've achieved that._

 _Thank you and enjoy._

* * *

Chapter 2

He was expecting the blows when they came. He did nothing to dodge them. He knew after Ortez's humiliation in the alley that the gangster would be keen for his pound of flesh. Not that he cared. He knew they wouldn't kill him, otherwise the deal would be off. And he'd experienced worse.

Rationally, he understood that the pain would be fleeting compared to anything he would feel if he lost the two people he loved. That would be a lifetime of bitter agony, rather than what he hoped was only going to be a few hours of a beating.

When he had turned up at the door to the club there had been no need to introduce himself. Ortez was expecting him and had put the word out. His jacket tore as they wrenched it off. They took his phone, his gun and his badge, before he was walked downstairs, past rooms pulsing with people and music. People having a good time – it was just another Friday night for them. In his white shirt and black tie nobody gave him a second glance. And those they moved past quickly made way, as if sensing trouble.

His pulse rose as soon as he was pushed into the room. The space felt tight, close. Much too small for the dozen or so men waiting there for him. The air felt thick with anticipation and smelt of cigarette smoke and sweat – possibly even fear. He didn't doubt that it had seen violence before.

A single, bare lightbulb hung from the centre of the ceiling. He was shoved until he was standing right under it – the main attraction. The men were eyeing him eagerly. He was an FBI agent who had become nameless and faceless – an opportunity too good to be missed. They jostled for position as they gathered around him, eager to throw a punch for the brother or cousin or uncle still languishing in jail thanks to what he represented.

So he concentrated on his breathing. Feeling his diaphragm expand and contract, just like the army had taught him to do if captured by the enemy. He settled his gaze in the middle distance and relaxed his hands by his sides. Breathe in, breathe out, never show weakness. Breathe in, breathe out. Accept that while the blows will hurt, they would be nothing compared to what he would feel if he shirked his duty and let loved ones down.

They started taunting him. "You're going down, G-man."

"You ain't never gonna see daylight again!"

"I've got a message for you from my brother, and I don't think you're going to like it!"

"Big FBI man. Not so tough now."

The last comment was delivered by a large man who danced around him, shaking his fists. Fleetingly, he wondered what Bones's anthropological explanation would have been for the primitive body language. He quickly closed the thought down. Thinking of her made him vulnerable.

"This is for my brother!" The first blow was to the midsection. He was ready for it and hardly stumbled. He concentrated on his breathing, flexing his hands at his sides, imagining his own aggression leaving his body through his fingertips. _Breathe in, breathe out_.

A blow to the back of the head and his vision swam. He stumbled harder, but steadied himself. _Breathe in, breathe out_. Lifting his head he stared straight ahead.

"I've come for my son and my partner. I know they're here." His voice was calm and steady, his eyes looked straight ahead as he delivered the message.

"Yeah! You don't know shit!" Another man was up in his face. Smaller this time, more brutish. He reminded himself that death was no danger. But that didn't mean he wasn't going to be sore in the morning.

Pain flared through his kidneys. He almost fell to his knees, but caught himself. He straightened to a standing position. Show no fear. _Breathe in, breathe out_.

"I've come for my son and partner. I know they're here."

"Your son's dead already, motherfucker."

He barely reacted. He knew the chances of that being true were slim. Ortez wanted out too badly. Still, his hands twitched in frustration at not being able to shut the man up.

Hot pain in his back, just below his ribs, replaced by warm blood. A blow to the back of the knees, taking his legs out from under him. They waited patiently for him to get up, before they took him down again.

 _Breathe in, breathe out._

"I've come for my partner and my son. I know they're here."

And on it went. Head, ribs, knees, back. The blows; the pain; the breathing; the mantra. His shirt tearing; a slash to his side. He tried not to slip on the blood on the floor. "I've come for my son and my partner. I know they're here."

Later, he couldn't be sure he was even saying the words out loud. But still he repeated them like a prayer.

He was struggling to get up. Down on all fours he heard a rib crack, and he hit the floor again, an involuntary groan leaving his lips.

They surrounded him, wrenched him up by his arms. Held him steady; held his head up. More blows to the face, then to the midsection followed by a blinding pain in his ribs.

 _Breathe in, breathe out. I've come for my son and my partner. I know they're here._

His vision was fading now, every part of him was just an aching throb. He was seized by a moment of panic, but he pushed it away. He thought of the Christian martyrs, the saints who had died for what they believed in, and felt resolve.

 _Breathe in, breathe out. I_ _'_ _ve come for my son and my partner. I know they're here._

"Enough!"

Ortez's voice cut through the rabble.

Dazed, he lifted his head, then stumbled forward as they let him go. He took a few seconds to collect himself – he concentrated on his breathing. Then he raised his head, looked Ortez in the face and said: "I've come for my son and my partner. I know you have them."

* * *

The crowd parted as Ortez turned away. Booth looked neither left nor right as he followed the gang leader through his men. Disappointed at having to let him go, they jostled him; he felt knuckles dig into his spine, his flesh was pinched and twisted. Blood trickled down the back of his collar, down his side, down his back.

He was finding it hard to breathe, the men were crowding him and their quiet intensity seemed to be burning up the oxygen around him. He struggled to get to the door. He never took his eyes off Ortez.

Then he was out, stepping into the dim corridor, leaving the men behind.

His vision blackened and his head filled with the pounding beat from the dance floors. He reached out a hand to steady himself against the wall, spitting the blood from his mouth as he tried to stop his body trembling. He couldn't tell if the tremors were from adrenalin or shock or something worse.

He looked up and saw Ortez waiting for him. In the corridor's dim light, the man looked haggard and small, as if bad deeds had diminished him in the five years since they'd last seen each other.

"I'm sorry Agent Booth. But it has to be real. If I'm to get away, they have to believe."

"Where's my son Ortez? One of your gangbangers in there said he was dead, Booth spat the words out, already imagining how he would bring the gang leader down and make him suffer before he killed him if it was true.

"See for yourself," Ortez said. He moved further down the hall and opened a door, motioning Booth inside.

It was a small office scattered with worn furniture, and dimly lit by a lamp on a desk. There was a faded calendar on the wall, along with a few Playboy posters, their edges curled. Pushed against a side wall was a dirty brown sofa with a bundle of blankets on it.

"I'll go and wait," Ortez said, backing into the hall. "It shouldn't be long now."

But Booth barely heard him, he was too busy scanning the room.

"Parker? Buddy? Are you in here?"

There was a movement in the far corner.

"Dad? Daddy?"

A small figure stepped out of the gloom, fists clenched by his sides.

In two short strides Booth had crossed the distance and swept the boy up into his arms, before falling to his knees.

"Daddy! Daddy, I was so afraid. I thought they were going to kill us!"

Parker was sobbing into his shoulder, shaking in his grasp.

"You're ok, Little Man," Booth said, using the pet name he'd given his son as a baby. "You're ok."

He held the boy, relief washing through him as he savoured the feel of the small body against his: the regular bumps of his spine, the rise and fall of his chest. But as he buried his face in his son's hair he caught the scent of his partner and felt a new wave of panic. There was no one else in the room. There was no sign of Bones.

 _Please God, where is she? Please God_.

He pushed the anxiety away and forced himself to concentrate on calming his son, tracing small circles on his back as he held him. Then he remembered the CCTV footage.

"Parker?" he pulled back, "Are you hurt?" He reached up and brushed the boy's hair away from his face. Even in the dim light the gash was obvious.

"It doesn't hurt anymore. It stopped bleeding."

Booth bit back fury: "Look at me Parker, You're all right now. You did brilliantly, Little Man, and very soon we're going to get out of here."

"But daddy – dad – you're hurt. There's blood."

"I know," he tried to keep his voice steady. "You know how sometimes I have to fight the bad guys? Well, I had to fight the bad guys. But it's ok now. I'm here with you."

"You didn't have your gun."

"No. I didn't have my gun, but I'm ok, you know? I'm here with you now."

"Daddy," Parker started to cry again.

"Hey buddy, don't worry, come over here," Booth bit his lip to keep from groaning as he helped his son up onto the couch and sat beside him. "What's wrong? You're ok."

"Dad, they took Bones."

Booth felt his expression harden. "I know, baby. Do you know where they took her?"

"Some men came and took her. She fought. Dad I tried to help! But she pushed me away."

He tried to turn off the image in his head of Bones taking on any of the men who had abused him. "Why was she fighting son?"

"They wanted to take me and I wouldn't go. So she was fighting and she was bleeding and I was so scared," the boy started crying again.

"Parker, it's ok. You know Bones. She's tough. I'm sure she's fine." He pulled his son close and the sobbing subsided slightly.

"Besides, my FBI buddies are going to break us out of here," he forced a laugh, "I may not have my gun, but they have theirs'. They were only waiting for me to find you, and then they're going to come get us, and we'll be going home."

"They are?"

"You bet!" he said with more optimism than he felt. "It's all part of the plan."

"What about Bones?"

"Don't worry son. They'll find her and they'll bring her home too."

"When dad?"

"Soon Parker, soon."

His son snuggled closer into his side as Booth leaned his head back on the couch. _Where is she?_ He glanced over at the door and considered banging on it until someone came, then demanding that she be brought to him. He looked down at Parker who was starting to fall asleep beside him and felt afraid. His tremors were back, sharper than before, and he was struggling to stay awake. In the condition he was in he couldn't risk anyone but Ortez coming to the door. But given freedom was only hours away for the gangster, he was probably trying to keep a low profile. There was no way he could leave Parker, and he couldn't take him with him to mount a rescue. Hell, the condition he was in, he probably couldn't mount a rescue anyway. No, he wouldn't risk Parker and he couldn't leave him. They were as safe as they were going to be. Bones would say that, rationally, the situation appeared stable, and introducing an unknown into it would make it unstable and put Parker at risk.

Risk and safety, that was what it came down to. He had to protect Parker from the trigger-happy agents that would arrive anytime soon to take in Ortez. He had to protect their position. He tried to tell himself that Bones would understand.

Gently moving the sleeping child aside, he got up, now fully focused on the task at hand.

He didn't know how long it took to move the couch so it was at an angle with the wall; to manoeuvre Parker, dopey with sleep, into the space behind it. He did know he almost blacked out with the effort, twice.

Then he sat in the makeshift den with Parker, stroking his son's head, trying not to think of Bones as anything other than what he knew her to be: strong, capable, brave. He would just have to trust the SWAT team. Trust his back-up. _Isn_ _'_ _t what they taught you in the service? You were never really alone_ _?_ The problem was, Bones was his back-up and he was hers. Except now he wasn't.

He shifted slightly as he tried to get more comfortable. But everything ached. His back was particularly bad. His head wound seemed to have stopped bleeding, but those on his body were still weeping. The men had torn the seam of his sleeve when they had wrenched him around and he ripped it off and balled it up, pressing it to the wound in his side. Careful not to wake Parker, he slipped off his belt and positioned the compress under it before cinching it tight.

God he ached. Everywhere hurt. He badly wanted to sleep, but he knew he had to stay alert. Besides, there was still one more thing he had to do.

Slowly getting up, he moved over to the desk before clearing the top of it with a sweep of his arm. Then, he flipped it on its side and, grunting with the effort, levered it in front of the sofa. It might offer some protection if the SWAT guys came in with all guns blazing.

Then he went back to Parker and started to pray.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hi there,_

 _I had a bit of trouble with POV in this chapter, and hope that I have now got it right. I also wanted to make sure readers could understand where Brennan's injuries were, despite her using technical language to describe them. I find Brennan much harder to write than Booth, so that was tricky too. If you want to review, I'd appreciate some feedback on those three points (and anything else you want to highlight!)._

 _I tried to get the medical and skeletal terminology right, and hope I have._

 _This is the last chapter. I hope you enjoyed the fic and many thanks for all the reviews, favourites and follows. I hope to have another Bones fic up soon._

 _FF40_

* * *

Chapter 3

She could feel the cold leaching into her bones. Her zygomatic first – the fist had broken the skin below her eye socket and now as she lay, cheek flat to the concrete, the wound felt raw. The top of her iliac crest was bruised, probably as a result of her being dragged and unable to lift her hips off the floor. She could feel parts of her femur – not a good sign. Her toes seemed unhurt, but may as well have been little icicles attached to the end of her feet.

Going through her skeletal structure reminded of her of the song she and Parker had been singing before the men arrived. _Dem Bones_ was far too simplistic to really explain the human skeleton, but she appreciated its regular syncopation. That and the fact that years before Booth had convinced his son that she had made it up. So Parker had always called it _Dr Bones_ rather than _Dem Bones_ _._ That had always made her smile.

At the thought of Parker she felt more pain. _Where was he? Was he all right?_ She got her hands underneath her and tried to push herself up. Immediately, she collapsed back onto the floor, biting back a scream.

She lay there for a good minute, looking at the grubby concrete, trying to fight a rising tide of panic. She breathed deeply, getting her emotions under control, then ever so slowly rolled over, whimpering from the pain in her leg. She lifted her head and looked down her body in the dim light. She knew it would be bad. Her right patella was severely swollen, stretching the fabric halfway down her jeans; the EMTs would have to cut them off when Booth found her. Her right femur was lying at an odd angle. _Definitely broken._

Lying back on the floor she tried to recall what had happened. She remembered the excruiciating pain when she was dragged by her legs from the room after they took her down; Parker receding from her view as he sat hunched against the wall, his eyes shut tightly against the violence, crying for Booth.

She remembered the fight before that. Remembered the pain as her fists connected with her assailants. Before one of them came from behind and swept her legs out from under her while the other jumped full force down on her femur.

She pushed the thoughts away. She had spent a lifetime suppressing the bad things that had happened to her. She had learnt that, rationally, indulging in such memories got her nowhere. She had to shut off negative emotion to keep moving forward. She had to build walls.

Struggling into a sitting position, she lifted her hands to refasten the few buttons left on her blouse. Her knuckles were bloody and bruised and the phalanges of her right ring finger appeared to be crushed.

 _Phalanges_ _._

That had been the bone grouping she and Parker had been singing about when they were taken. She knew it wasn't part of the negro spiritual, but she was determined that when _she_ sung it no bones would be left out. When Booth teased her, she had reminded him that he had said it was her song, so she reasoned she could sing it how she liked. He had laughed, and Parker had laughed at them both; the sound made her feel like she had made a particularly good joke.

 _Parker_.

 _Where was Parker? Was he all right? Why had they been taken in the first place? Did Booth know they were gone? What if Parker was dead?_

She took a shaky breath and forced herself to slow down.

 _Why were they taken?_ It had to be something to do with Booth.

 _Where was Parker?_ She knew the men had come to take him away for a particular purpose, that was why she had fought. If their intention was simply to separate them, reason suggested they would have taken _him_ from the room, not her.

 _Was he even alive?_ If she was alive, he was definitely alive, she reassured herself. If their object was to hurt Booth, they'd kill her before they'd hurt his son. Just to show they were serious.

With that thought, she found her eyes drawn towards the room's only door, as if to convince herself that there was no one coming through it to finish what they'd started.

 _Stupid. Don't be stupid._ She forced the panicky thoughts away and began to build a wall.

She took in the room. It was small, perhaps a store room of some kind, and was lit by one small window, set high in the wall. There was no furniture, in fact nothing at all – it provided no weapon to defend herself.

She started hauling herself toward the door, trying not to cry out as she pulled her useless leg across the floor. She reached up and turned the knob – locked of course, but worth a try. She pressed her ear against the wood, straining to hear something, anything. There was nothing. Frowning slightly, she strained harder. When they had let her out of the trunk, it looked like they were at the back of a nightclub. And she could have sworn she had heard the throb of a baseline earlier. But now, silence. She couldn't even tell if there was someone guarding the hall outside.

She slumped against the door and tried to imagine Booth searching for them, out there in the maze of hallways; imagined him kicking in the door.

But thinking of Booth led her back to Parker. _What if he were dead?_ Would Booth blame her? Again she tried to think rationally. She had done all she could. She had fought, but they were stronger.

Somehow, thinking rationally was not helping.

 _Where is he? Where is he?_

She knew that would be Booth's first question on finding her. He would kneel down in front of her, he would grip her shoulders, trying not to hurt her but desperate to know. _Where_ is _he Bones? Where is my son?_

And she wouldn't know. She would let him down in this, the most important thing.

Fear began to beat in her breast. She had to do better, she had to get Parker back and keep him safe.

She braced herself, lifted her hand and began to pound the door.

"Parker! Are you there? Anyone! Let me out!"

"Parker! Are you there? Anyone! Let me out!"

"Parker! Are you there? Anyone! Let me out!"

But no one came.

* * *

When the SWAT team found her hours later she was only semi-concious and her lips were turning blue. The room – an old cold store in the basement – was one of the last searched in the sweep of the building. They found her opposite the door, her leg twisted at an angle, her head slumped to the side.

"We found someone! We need the paramedics down here now!" the team leader shouted into his mouthpiece. Tapping his earpiece he listened to the reply.

"Caucasin female, five foot seven, wearing the same clothes as the missing person."

Slowly, she stirred. "Booth?"

"I think I can positively ID as Dr Brennan," the leader said. "Tell Agent Booth he can stop breaking the place apart. We've found his partner."

* * *

The next time she woke she was warm. Her body felt heavy and unresponsive, but the pain was gone. Her eyes flickered open, taking in the beige walls and a TV mounted on a bracket attached to the wall. She saw a blue blanket covering her body, a square shape under it at the end of her bed.

 _Hospital_ _._

She turned her head and registered the empty visitors' chair; briefly she wondered where he was before her eyes closed and she slept.

* * *

The next time Brennan woke, her eyes went straight to the chair. Again, it was empty. She started to feel anxious, but rationalised that he wouldn't stay there the whole time, and anyway, she wouldn't want him to – it would be bad for his back. Besides, he had Parker to worry about – assuming Parker was all right, and she was sure he was. They would have killed her first.

Her mouth felt dry, whether from the anxiety or the hospital heating she didn't know. She reached for the plastic cup on her bedside cabinet, but both her hands were bandaged and she fumbled. It fell to the floor.

"Let me get that."

She looked up and saw Booth standing in the door. Immediately, her tension eased.

Dressed in sweatpants and an old T-shirt, his face was bruised, his head bandaged. He had one hand on a wheeled IV stand, his other arm clamped around his middle. He gave her a tired smile.

A million thoughts flashed through her mind. His injuries, how they got here . . . Parker.

"Booth, I . . . "

"I got it, I got it," he said, limping forward, "Good to see you awake, Bones."  
Brennan saw him set his jaw before bending down to pick up the cup, saw the bandages under his T-shirt as it rode up, heard his shortness of breath when he stood, looking like he'd just found something important that he'd lost.

"There. Told you I could do it."

He handed the cup to her and braced himself against the bed.

"Booth, I think you should sit down. I don't know if you should be out of bed."

He ignored her and leaned in closer, concern in his eyes. "Are you ok Bones? You've been out for a while."

"I'm fine. I haven't seen a doctor yet. I think I'll need to talk to her about my femur – and some damage seems to have been done to the patella. There's a crushed phalanges as well. The rest is just superficial cuts and bruises," the words came out in a rush.

For a moment he seemed relieved, but then his expression turned dark.

Brennan's stomach clenched in fear and she took a shaky breath, "Booth, where's Parker . . .?"

He didn't seem to have heard and she fought down panic as she tried to reach him. "Booth, is Parker ok?"

He swallowed hard and reached a hand up. "What's . . . ?" he gestured to her neck, his hand hovering just above her skin, passing the hollow of her collarbone, moving down over her chest. She stiffened; he was so close now she could feel his body heat.

"What are these?" he asked softly, gesturing to the bite marks on her skin.

 _Oh. Right._

He looked stricken. "Did those men hurt you Bones?"

Looking away Brennan remembered the man who had torn open her shirt and bitten her, once, twice, three times before the others had dragged him off.

She turned back to him, her gaze softening as she tried to reassure him.

"No Booth. That was it. They pulled him off me and left."

He blinked at that, his hand moving to brush a lock of hair away from her face. Seemingly reassured by even this small contact, his body relaxed and he turned to sit in the chair.

Then it was her turn to be scared. "What happened Booth? What happened to Parker?"

Easing himself down, Booth looked up at her. "Don't worry Bones, Parker's fine. They didn't hurt him – thank God. He was scared and hungry. Ate three bowls of icecream as soon as he got here," he smiled, and a bit of the Booth she knew showed itself.

"He's with his mom. They kept him in overnight, but then the doctors were happy. They thought it best he get home to a familiar space as soon as possible."

"Booth, I'm sorry." Suddenly the need to explain herself became overwhelming. "I'm sorry I left him. I fought, but there were too many of them, they were too strong."

She blinked back tears.

"Bones stop," Booth winced as he tried to lever himself back out of the chair. He grabbed the edge of her bed and pulled himself up. "I know you did your best. Better than your best. I know what you did for him."

"I did try to fight. I wanted to stay. I fought to stay with him." She was crying now, all the fear and anxiety released.

"Bones, please." She heard a desperation in his tone, saw his face, anguished and bleak through her tears. She realised she was upsetting him and it scared her. She took a breath and tried to get herself under control.

" _I_ _'_ _m_ sorry, Bones."

"You?! For what?" she sniffled.

"For …" he wobbled on his feet for a minute and grabbed for the bed. She tried to make room but twisted her leg, crying out in pain.

"Bones sorry! Do you need more morphine?" he started shuffling around, reaching for her drip.

"No, Booth, it wasn't your fault. I . .. wait!" He was limping badly, struggling with the IV stand as tried to reach the morphine button.

"Agent Booth!"

Brennan turned at the sharp voice and saw a grey-haired woman standing in the doorway.

"Just what on earth do you think you are doing?!"

"Nurse Hernandez," Booth replied. Brennan thought she had never heard him sound so weary.

"Agent Booth was just trying to show me the morphine pump," she struggled to keep the irritation from her voice.

"Yes, well, I have asked him to stay in his room," the nurse replied, bustling over to the bed. "You need to rest Agent Booth. Let the nursing staff do the nursing. Now please," her tone became more kindly, "You _have_ to go back to your room."

She took a torch from the top pocket of her tunic as Booth limped back to the chair and lowered himself into it.

"Now, Dr Brennan. Now that you're awake, let's have a look at you. Open your eyes wide please."

Brennan tried not to squint as the torch beam shone into her eyes. She could see Booth over Hernandez's shoulder. His head was laid back in the chair, his eyes shut. For the first time she could see how tired and battered he looked. The dark circles under his eyes, his bruises turning black and purple, the uneven rise and fall of his chest, indicating some kind of injury to the ribs.

 _He seems exhausted. Wh_ _y was he apologising to me_ _?_

"Ok, that seems fine," Hernandez snapped off the light. "Now let me look at this leg."

Brennan adjusted her position and tried not to flinch as the nurse began her examination.

"Bones, the morphine," Booth was looking at her through red-rimmed eyes. "You can use the morphine Bones, that's what it's for."

"You're a fine one to talk," Hernandez said as she pressed the pump. " _Both_ of you need morphine to aid the healing process."

Brennan closed her eyes as the nurse bustled some more, poking and prodding her leg. She was annoyed that the morphine was making its way into her system; it would dull her senses, and she wanted to be present for Booth.

"Now, I'll just go and tell the doctor you're awake," Hernandez said, carefully replacing the blanket before giving Booth a hard stare. "And when I get back, I will help you back to your bed and try and make you stay there." With that, she hurried out of the room.

Brennan watched her go before she turned to her partner: "She's right, you know Booth."

Booth opened his eyes and quietly surveyed her. "Yeah? About what Bones?"

"You should be in bed. You shouldn't be up and coming to see me. You need your rest."

Booth slowly moved to the edge of the chair before using the IV pole to lever himself to stand. He shuffled over to the bed.

"I know. I just wanted to check on you and come by and say sorry," he reached one hand toward her shoulder, tracing down her arm. "You know, the leg, the fingers," he swallowed hard, "The bites . . . I'm sorry Bones."

Suddenly she understood. She knew why he was apologising. It was his way of asking.

"Booth, you didn't desert me. You weren't too late. You found me in time. I'm fine."

He gave a little smile at that, dropping his hand to his side, the strain around his eyes easing.

"Well, I'd better go back to bed before Battleaxe comes back," he gave her a quick smile as he turned away. "But remember Bones, I'm just down the hall if you need me It's not too far. Just yell and I'll hear. I'll come get you."

Smiling as he left the room she whispered to herself, "I know you will, Booth. I know you will."


End file.
